70

I don’t usually pay any attention to birthdays of mine. It’s just some more water under the bridge. Another year passed.

But this one’s different. It’s the biblical three score years and ten. I’m 70 today.

And I feel that I’ve finally made it. I’ve reached the end of the line. And anything that comes after this is extra.

When I read obituaries I always think that anyone who got past 70 lived a full life. They had a good innings.  But if they didn’t make it to 70, I think that they didn’t.

It’s like an examination pass mark. If you score 70 or more, you’ve passed. If you score less than 70, you’ve failed.

I always felt rather sorry for David Bowie, that he died a day or two after his 69th birthday. If he could have gone on for less than one more year, he’d have hit the pass mark. Sorry: 69.01% is a fail.

It says on my tobacco packets that Smokers Die Younger. Maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. Who cares? I don’t care. I’m not trying to live as long as I possibly can. I wanted to make it to 70, and today I made it. And that’s all I wanted.

I think my attitudes may change now. I feel that I’ve lived my life. It was a very interesting life. And it was also quite an easy life. I didn’t get called up and sent to fight in a war (which I thought I probably would when I was young). And I didn’t drop dead during a plague. And I didn’t get killed in a car crash or plane crash. And I didn’t get murdered by terrorists. I guess I was lucky.

I think everything will just be extra icing on the cake from now on. And I might start being much more daring and adventurous. Because there’s nothing left to lose. Maybe I’ll live to 75. Maybe even 79 like my father. Or maybe it’ll just be 70.

I turned 70 at 11 minutes to 3 this morning. That was the time that I was born in Woking Maternity Hospital. There was snow on the ground outside, my mother told me. So I’ve already had over 9 hours of extra.

At school, some 60 years ago, I had not just a name but also a number. And my number was 70. On all my clothes my mother had sewn little tags which said: Christopher Davis 70. She didn’t include my middle name, Francis. And I used to read that number and wonder if it was a prediction of how long I would live, or just a suggestion for how long I might aspire to live, or was just a speed limit. At age 10, 70 seemed a very long time in the future.

I’m hoping to meet up with a few people in the Smoky Drinky Bar tonight. Everyone is welcome to drop in, however briefly. I’m hoping to see my brother (aged 73) and his wife, currently on holiday in Oman or somewhere.  Emily said she’d show up at 11 pm my time. And RdM in New Zealand will be there too, probably around the same time, or earlier. I think Brigitte will be there too. I’m planning to spend the entire evening in the Smoky Drinky Bar, gradually downing a bottle of sparkling Chardonnay. If I’m nowhere in sight when you enter, it’ll probably be because my head is on the table, and I’ve fallen asleep.